There was a statue of Aphrodite and Eros at the center of the room, a stunning depiction of the goddess of love, holding her son in her arms as he reached for something beyond her shoulder. The child god’s every muscle seemed to strain, his arms and fingers extended, his chubby legs kicking out from his mother’s chest, pushing in desire for something he would never reach.

The statue stood as a pale, beautiful reminder that sometimes even the gods were refused their wishes and that mere mortals were silly to expect anything different.

The journey from Yorkshire had been terrible, Juliana unable to eat, unwilling to rest until she had put as much distance as possible between herself and Simon . . . as though distance could cure her of the devastating ache in her heart that came whenever she thought of him.

Which was constantly.

She had known that running was not the most respectable of actions, but she could not stay in Yorkshire—in that house—not while he tempted her into his arms and his bed and his life. Not when she knew that she would never be enough for him.

Not when she could not give him that which he held in such high regard—a fine pedigree, an untarnished reputation, propriety.

All she had for him was a messy past and her love.

And sometimes, sadly, love was not enough.

How I wish it could be.

She sighed, running a finger along the perfectly wrought foot of Eros. She should not be here. Not at this hour, likely not at all. But four days trapped in a carriage with nothing but her thoughts had made her desperate to prove herself.

She had nearly driven herself mad playing over the last weeks in her head—all the time with Simon, all the conversations, all the moments when he had questioned her actions, when he had saved her from scandal.

When he had held her in his arms and made her believe that she might be enough for him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She knew better . . . knew that the faster she left, the better off they would all be. She would never have him—she could never be a true partner to him. He would always be a duke, she always a commoner with a questionable history. But it did not make her love him any less, even as she wished it did.

She could not prove to him that she was more.

But she could prove it to herself.

And so she waited for her mother.

She was here because of the scandal. Because her mother’s actions had colored the world’s view of her . . . for her entire life. Because her mother’s actions had made her question her own actions, her own motivations, her own desires.

Because she had to know, once and for all, that blood did not out.

She had to know she could be more. Better. Different.

She had lived for too many years in her mother’s shadow; it was time for her to come out into the sun.

“An odd time for a call,” Louisa said as she entered the room, swathed in a dressing gown that floated around her as though she were wrapped in wind. She looked beautiful. As usual.

She sat, casting a critical eye over Juliana, taking in her gown, wrinkled and dusty from the journey, her mud-covered boots, and her hair, coming loose from the simple coif that Carla had arranged at the last staging post. “You look awful.”

Juliana resisted the temptation to smooth or settle. She had nothing to prove to her mother. Instead, she sat and watched as Louisa poured a glass of sherry without offering Juliana anything.

“So you have come to visit me in prison.”

“Hardly a prison,” Juliana said drily.

Louisa waved a hand dismissively. “All these statues make me feel like I live in a museum.”

“No one is forcing you to remain in London,” Juliana pointed out.

“That much is true . . . but I don’t have anywhere else to go, darling.” Juliana did not care for the endearment, so cold and casual. “I don’t suppose that Gabriel has decided what to do with me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I hope he does it sooner rather than later. I should like to be gone from here before I am made a grandmother. I do not need the reminder that I grow old.”

One side of Juliana’s mouth rose at the complete and unbelievable self-absorption. “I do not think that Gabriel has much interest in your schedule.”

Louisa rolled her eyes. “It is not that I am not happy for him. He and his wife seem comfortable. But that life . . . the clinging children . . . the crying . . . the incessant requests . . .” She sat back in her chair. “It was not for me.”

“I had not noticed.”

Louisa’s gaze narrowed on her. “You have grown up to have your father’s bold tongue.”

Juliana shrugged, knowing the movement would grate on her mother. “I was lacking additional examples.”

Louisa sighed. “Well, if you are not here to bring news of my future, what brings you here in the middle of the night?”

So typical. Such concern for herself and no one else.

Juliana did not hesitate. “Do you regret it?”

Louisa was not a fool. She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

She did not have to think about the answer. “I do not regret it on the whole, no. I do not regret being a marchioness, or even a merchant’s wife—though your father was less wealthy than he initially let on, and things were not always easy . . .”

“I assure you, things did not become easier after you deserted us.”

“Deserted,” Louisa scoffed. “What a dramatic word.”

“Would you refer to it in another way?”

“Juliana . . . it was my life. And I wanted it to be lived. Surely you can understand that, darling. You are so obviously that way.”